


Punishment, Conclusion, Acquittal

by Fickle_Obsessions



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Corporal Punishment, Crying, Dominance, Hand Jobs, M/M, Shame, Spanking, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:49:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7896841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions/pseuds/Fickle_Obsessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben knows the request is coming long before the General makes it, and he knows it because he has failed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punishment, Conclusion, Acquittal

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you start writing something for a tumblr ask and it gets out of hand... mind the tags. Ben's about to go on a wild ride of feelings. (Unbeta'ed.)

Ben knows the request is coming long before the General makes it, and he knows it because he has failed. Intelligence on the enemy’s movements through Jersey did not arrive in time to prevent a foraging party of fifty Continental soldiers from meeting British troops in an open field. Now fifteen men were dead or wounded and there was no forage for men that already go without their rations far too often. 

Ben had done his best, done his utmost, and used every connection and trick he had. But letters were delayed by impassable rivers and until messages could travel through the air there would always be too many things that remain out of his control. And yet Ben feels acutely and terribly the sense that there was more he should have done, more that he should have been able to anticipate. 

That evening Ben stands before the General and makes his report. He doesn’t spare himself or make any excuses. Washington sits at his desk, asking his questions and making his notations, his face perfectly impassive. Does so until finally there is nothing more to be said. 

Except of course for: “This is very disappointing, Major Tallmadge.” 

It’s strange to feel shame and excitement at the same time, but Ben does. Cold shame in his gut for having disappointed Washington at the same time his neck and cheeks flush hot because he knows, very soon, the General will say-

“And such a disappointment would seem to require disciplinary action.” 

Ben looks down at the floor. “As you see fit, sir.” 

Truly he wants to beg for it, but that would be unseemly. There are men actually dead because of this, and yet that is exactly why Ben needs this. Without punishment, without _discipline_ he will worry at this for days, torture himself because he won’t have paid at all for this mistake when others had suffered the gravest consequences because of it. What the General will dole out will be justice, and with justice done Ben may have a clean slate, a chance to try again.

For a moment Washington looks at him, measuring him, judging him, seeing right through him. Ben stands there, still and straight and doesn’t try to hide. The General comes to a decision.

“Take off your jacket, Major.” Swallowing hard, Ben shrugs his shoulders out of his jacket. He folds it carefully and leaves it hanging over the back of a nearby chair. 

Once he’s finished he turns back to Washington and awaits further instruction. “Your sword and your belt, Major.” 

Ben removes them both with trembling fingers. They join the jacket on the chair.

Washington sizes him up, and Ben has to struggle now to keep still under the weight of his gaze. “Your waistcoat, as well.” 

It’s a relief to be able to look down at his hands as he works the buttons free. Eventually he stands before Washington in nothing but boots, breeches, and shirt sleeves. Naked of anything to identify him as a soldier of any rank, a man of any station at all. 

“Come here,” Washington orders next. 

Ben goes immediately. He comes to stand directly before where Washington is seated and waits to be told what to do next. Sometimes the General bids him to go and grab his walking stick, sometimes the General will remove his belt. Once he undid his sword from his belt and used that, still safely encased in its scabbard of course. 

Tonight Washington only spreads his thighs a little and says, “Your breeches, Major.”

Ben feels a spark of utterly indecent hunger. It is to be only the General’s hand, then. He pulls his shirttails free from the waist of his breeches so that when he rolls them down to his knees they will cover the shameful fact that his cock has been thickening up since he first took off his jacket. 

He does not have to wait very long for his next order. Washington says, carefully enunciating each word in that light, airy tone of his. “Over my knee.” 

Choking back on the impulse to thank Washington, Ben does as he is told, forced to take small shuffling steps thanks to his breeches around his knees. The General is a famously tall man, and his hips and thighs are wide enough for a grown man, even one of Ben’s size, to lay across them and be well supported. As he settles onto them, Ben is painfully aware that the only things between his cock and the General’s thigh, are two layers of thin fabric: his shirt and Washington’s breeches. 

With his shirt hanging down his naked rump is covered, but that is soon lifted up and away; cool air breezes over the skin and making Ben shiver. Washington is careful to touch the shirt only, his fingertips hardly brush Ben’s skin at all, as he lifts and gathers the fabric so that it lies upon the small of his back.

There’s a long, pregnant pause where Ben can think of nothing but how absurd he must look, how stupid and childish. Even so nothing could compel him to stand up, to right himself, to feign that this has all been madness and he has finally found his reason. 

He waits, patient, and lets Washington do whatever it is that he does in these moments of anticipation. Ben cannot see him, cannot be sure. Maybe the General only looks, maybe he must steel himself, or maybe he is meditating upon Ben’s faults to find the anger necessary to mete out discipline with the appropriate force. 

Finally Washington says, “Count, Major.” 

No more than a second later the palm of his hand comes down _hard_ upon Ben’s ass. Ben hears the sound first, then feels the sting of the impact. He gasps when he says, “One.” 

The next blow comes down upon his other cheek, just as hard. “Two.” 

The third aims almost perfectly for the location of the first blow, the skin is probably pink already, making an easy bullseye. Though the force of it isn’t any harder, the skin is already awake and hot, so it hurts more. Ben has to grit his teeth against a whimper when he counts, “Three.” 

The General must hear it anyway, because four, five, and six come down on that same spot in rapid succession. They come too quickly to count them as they happen, and knock the breath out of him. He pants on Washington’s knee for a moment, and Washington gives him that time, lets Ben breathe and feel his stinging skin settle down in a more pleasant, hot, dull ache.

The General’s patience, however, is not infinite. “Count, Major,” he says again. 

For all Ben’s attempt to catch his breath, he sounds breathless, strangled, when he counts, “Four, five, six.”

The next four come down on the other cheek, and by the end Ben cannot help but jump, cannot stifle his whimper. Ben’s throat is tight when he counts them out, seven, eight, nine, and ten.

Washington is showing him absolutely no mercy. How can a man be so strong, how can simple flesh feel so unyielding? Though they are both men, Washington is rigid and unbending while Ben seems to be nothing more than artist’s clay, infinitely malleable beneath Washington’s hands.

The next strike comes to the tender backs of his thighs, first one, then the other. The pain blooms under Washington’s hands faster there, “Eleven. Twelve.” Then again, and god it _stings._ His eyes are watering. “Thirteen. F-fourteen.”

Down comes the General’s hand again, back onto his ass, and if he thought Washington was not holding back before he realizes now he’s underestimated the man’s strength. It takes everything Ben has not to call out, not to writhe until he is in danger of unseating himself from the General’s lap. 

He says, “Fifteen,” like it’s being dragged out of him. Fifteen, the number of men he allowed to be killed or wounded by his inability to fulfill his duty as was expected of him. 

He shuts his eyes tight against sudden tears, imagining that he understands the lesson he has been taught well enough. He is regretting each and every one of those men when there is another, final strike. Sixteen. Ben doesn’t know what that last one represents, thinks it must be Washington, the sixteenth man Ben has failed today, and that is terrible enough. But he doesn’t know it without a doubt as he did the first fifteen. It could represent anything, nothing, could represent _himself,_ and the sob he has been stalwartly refusing to allow himself suddenly breaks free because after all this he still does not understand. 

He is not sure if he counts the last blow aloud, but if he failed to Washington does not appear to mind. He only lets Ben lie across his lap and cry like like a child. It takes Ben some time (minutes, seconds, he does not know) to realize that the General’s hand has come back to him, this time to soothe him, rubbing gentle circles on his back. Ben hiccups, and wipes his face on his shirt sleeve. He is surprised to find a handkerchief offered to him, and he takes it before sliding down to kneel at Washington’s feet. 

Helplessly embarrassed, he blows his nose. Even so his response when the General asks, “Are you grateful, Major?” his answer is entirely sincere. 

“Yes,” he says, nodding. Then remembering himself he says, “Yes, sir.” He does feel better. Somehow after the blows and the tears he is no longer tangled up inside, but smooth, relaxed. He is unbearably grateful, he only wishes that he didn’t have to shame them both to feel this way. 

Ben sighs, soft and relieved, when the General says, “Then show your gratitude.” 

He takes his time in opening Washington’s belt and moving his clothes out of the way. If he can show the proper respect he fancies it might confer some dignity to the deed, much the way Washington’s regal posture and calm demeanor somehow make him seem anything but base when Ben can see the outline of Washington’s arousal against the seam of his breeches. He never knows when it happens. Is it when Ben is stretched out over his lap, when he’s crying, in the anticipation for Ben’s mouth after both of those things are over? Ben always promises himself that he’ll keep his head enough the next they do this to keep his senses enough to feel for some hint of the General’s hardness but he always loses himself too quickly, becomes too quickly focused on the sensations of his own body to notice. 

Ben’s mouth is watering by the time Washington’s cock is exposed to him, a testament, perhaps, to the fact that this appetite is innate. He wonders if maybe all of this isn’t a symptom of a sick and troubled mind, but a mere mistake of physiology. His eyes fall closed as his mouth stretches over the head, and he realizes it hardly matters if it is one or the other. 

A large hand spreads over the back of Ben’s head, fingertips working gently down into his hair to rub against the scalp. It only rests there for the moment, leaving Ben to do the work and he does not shirk it. It’s pleasant enough, to press his lips tight around the shaft, to press the tip of his tongue up and have it drag up the length. He keeps his breathing calm, his rhythm of his head lifting up and sliding down steady. 

It’s good, but when the General’s hand tightens in his hair, it’s better. Ben goes still at the pull of the fist in his hair, and sighs again, long and slow. He’s pulled up, and pushed down and all he has to do is keep his mouth open and wet around Washington’s cock. He drifts, far enough away that he’s no longer aware of the passage of time, of any of his troubling thoughts, the guilt, the shame. He could not even say whether his legs are uncomfortable from being folded under him. Despite being so far away from himself he does not feel lost, the hand in his hair tells him he is exactly where he should be doing exactly as he should.

Tears come again when the Washington’s hips begin to jump, to shove a little deeper into Ben’s mouth. They wet Ben’s lashes, collect in the corners of his eyes, but he doesn’t notice them, won’t until it’s over. He’s not even aware that his hands have lifted up to grip the General’s thighs, fingers digging into his breeches, the skin underneath them. Ben realizes that only after he’s swallowed the hot wash of Washington’s release, after he’s come back to his body enough to find he’s pressed his face into the inside Washington’s thigh while he coughed and spluttered and caught his breath.

Gently Ben disengages his hands from their grip and sits back onto the heels of his boots. His backside is still hot, still sore, the press of the boot leather against it makes him whimper, squirm a little. It makes him realize that he is still aroused, hard. 

Washington’s hand curls around his chin, and lifts his face up. Every time Ben looks up he expects to see regret, but every time he is startled to see something gentler. 

“You did very well, Major.” 

Ben tries to hide his face in the General’s palm but not before he blurts out, “Thank you, sir.” 

The hand on his chin urges him up, bids Ben to figure out how to stand on shaky legs and allow himself to be arranged again on Washington’s lap, this time as if he were a child being dandled upon his knee. 

“I’m proud of you, Major,” Washington says, one hand upon Ben’s thigh, the other on his back holding him steady. 

Ben shakes his head, “No, sir, no.” He’s done nothing to deserve praise, even his punishment was wicked, shameful. 

“I am,” Washington says firmly. He reaches up to tuck a lock of hair that has come free from Ben’s queue behind his ear. “You’ve done everything I’ve asked of you, and done it perfectly.” 

Ben shuts his eyes, but doesn’t contradict his commander again. He breathes through Washington’s kind words as if they are as difficult to take as a particularly hard strike. 

“I can always trust you,” Washington says, his hand leaving Ben’s hair to return to his thigh, resting a bit higher up this time. “To take your responsibilities to heart, to lament your failures fiercely, and to learn from them.” 

Ben’s mouth falls open, and he begins to pant raggedly before he’s even really been touched.

“I’m grateful for you,” Washington tells him, and Ben can’t keep quiet anymore. 

“Sir,” he says. That’s all, just, “Sir.” It’s not a plea for mercy, not a contradiction, not a request for more, and yet it’s all of those things at once.

“You are beautiful,” Washington says as he takes Ben’s cock in his hand. Ben makes a little punched in the gut noise, the words and the rough, broad palm together too much for him to bear. “Strong, smart, and so very dedicated.” 

He tucks his face his into Washington’s neck, not to hide from the words, but to hide his reaction to them, to muffle the sound of his moans. He is so relieved to have the proof that, despite his failure, he is not discarded, he is not exiled from the General’s favor. Instead he is being held, pleasured and praised, and though he feels he does not deserve any of it, he _must_ if Washington wills it. Seated on the General’s thigh Ben can feel where bruises are forming, he will go through the whole of tomorrow forcing himself not to walk and sit gingerly because of them. If Washington has conviction enough to strike him, to discipline him, he could hardly be induced to give false compliments. 

All the while Washington strokes him he gives praise such as he never does at any other time. His cold and distant reserve is shed revealing instead someone whose hand is too hot, and whose voice is too soft as he tells Ben, _insists,_ “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

Ben gasps as his body tenses, locks up so tight it almost hurts, and he spills into Washington’s fist. 

“Good,” Washington assures him. “Good boy.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Ben says, again. “Thank you.” 

Washington acknowledges his gratitude by presenting his soiled hand to him. Ben takes his wrist carefully and holds it up as he sucks away the traces of his own release from the fingers, licks it away from the palm. He does not dare to look at Washington’s face as he does it but he feels the hand on his back grip him tighter, hold him a little closer.

When he’s done Washington drags the pad of his thumb across Ben’s lower lip thoughtfully. Ben looks up, wondering if there is something more the General wants, willing to do anything. He waits, patient as always, for the order. He is not entirely prepared for Washington to lean forward, tilt his face up, and bring their lips together. 

He startles because they have never, not even once, done this. The thought had never even occurred. When Washington takes his surprise as a rebuff and starts to pull away, Ben reaches up immediately, taking his face in two gentle hands, to stop him. Though never conceived of, it was hardly because it was unwanted. They kiss for a long time as if they were any other set of lovers with no concern for rank or propriety. It’s just as quiet and free from shame as when Ben is on his knees before the General and drifting. 

It’s Ben who eventually breaks away, who remembers how very long they have spent alone and that how the General’s time is spent is carefully noted by others. “I should go, sir,” he says, in regretful explanation. 

Washington takes a deep breath and nods. Ben stands and turns away, fixing his clothes with fingers slightly numb and slow. He goes over to the other chair to put the rest of his uniform on, layer by layer. By the time he slips on his jacket again Ben feels again like he is a soldier, and one that can do what is asked of him. He turns around and finds Washington perfectly composed, looking as though none of what transpired between them truly happened, as if it had all been a fever dream of Ben's imagination. 

Ben doesn’t know what to say. Washington speaks instead. “Your hair, Major.” 

He frowns, confused. “Sir?” 

“It’s become rather undone.” Washington stands, and gestures to the chair. 

Ben hesitates a moment before he crosses the floor and sits carefully down. It feels quite strange to take over the General’s position, especially considering that the contact of the hard wooden seat against the marks of he received while stretched across it make Ben wince. Washington steps away when he sits down, goes over to a small stand and picks up a comb. He returns and carefully pulls the ribbon in Ben’s hair free.

“Hold this, if you would,” he says, dangling the ribbon over Ben’s shoulder. Ben takes it from his hand and contemplates it, rubbing his thumb over the silk, while Washington, General Washington, combs Ben’s hair and neatly pulls it back. 

Washington’s hand appears again in Ben’s field of vision, and Ben gives him the ribbon. His queue is neatly tied a moment later. 

“There,” Washington says when he is finished. “Now none shall be the wiser.”

Ben stands immediately, doesn't know what else to do but turn and bow. “Thank you, sir.” He goes for the door, grips the handle, and pauses. He looks back, Washington has sat down again, turned toward his endless work. Ben swallows, makes himself say, “Good night, sir.” 

Washington looks up from his papers, his face utterly expressionless for a moment, lost in thought. But he looks at Ben and then he smiles, ever so faintly. “Good night, Major.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr,](http://fickleobsessions.tumblr.com) frequently being shameless.


End file.
